


crawling all the way

by Pomfry



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stick of Truth (South Park), Background Relationships, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Famine - Freeform, Female Pronouns for Kenny McCormick, High Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Not Beta Read, Politics, Power Imbalance, Prisoner of War, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stick-Assigned Soulmates, The Stick of Truth is a meddler, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29257485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pomfry/pseuds/Pomfry
Summary: This war has been fought for generations upon generations, founded upon hatred and blood. Stan is just another man within the endless cycle; he fights and he kills, and he will die on the battlefield like so many before him. War is all he knows. War is all he is, even if he's so very tired of it. Then he meets Kyle, the King of the Drow Elves, and he finds that peace suits him, after all.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Stan Marsh
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> throws this at you and runs away

The winter has not been kind to humanity. Their food stores ran out earlier than anticipated, with the temperature dropping to below freezing and staying there. Firewood disappeared quickly, most of it taken by the grand wizard, who justified it by saying that, as the current king until the princess became of age, he needed it for the castle. The rest of Kupa Keep—or at least the capital of the human’s kingdom—suffered as a result. Stan has gotten into the habit of shivering under his threadbare blankets, having given his thicker ones away, and saving his food. Princess Karen and Prince Kevin quickly began sleeping in their sister’s room, piling on top of her bed and sharing body heat. It is as though the earth is punishing them, though for what Stan cannot say.

It hurts, though. To see the soldiers he leads turn white and thin, hands shaking from hunger. To see the citizens he fights to protect turn inward, unwilling to leave their homes, fires so small they barely keep them warm. It hurts, to see all of this, to see the place Stan has always called home and dedicated his life to protecting, to suffer so. To be able to do  _ nothing  _ to help them.

The Grand Wizard has the Stick of Truth in his possession. The council pleaded with him multiple times to use it; to stop the winter, the death. Princess Kenny had spent days practically begging, and to see the powerful and headstrong princess on her knees before a man who should have never been on the throne made Stan’s blood boil. Stan would use the Stick of Truth himself, but he has no magical aptitude. At least, not the kind needed to use the Stick of Truth. Only a few can use it, and fewer still can harness the sheer amount of power contained in it. Although the Grand Wizard claims he can, Stan has his doubts. The Stick of Truth has never left its place on top of the enchanted pillow whenever humanity has it, and Stan has seen the Elf King use it as a weapon, brandishing it as he would his own staff. He’s never gotten close enough, though—only the Grand Wizard can match him, and Stan has other responsibilities besides.

Ugh, what is he thinking? He’s on patrol; he can’t afford to have his mind wander. With Kupa Keep lacking manpower, it is the perfect time for the elves to attack.

Stan shakes his head, wrinkling his nose as he steps over a fallen tree. “My brain needs to shut up.”

“ Why?” asks a voice from behind him, and Stan startles, whirling around. His sword is already out of its sheath by the time he finishes his rotation, the blade poking into the chest of a man. His hair is a dark red, strands that escape his bright green hat curling gently around his face, and purple eyes staring at him in shock.

He does not have the pointed ears of an elf.

Stan sighs, lowering his sword. “What are you doing outside the walls? You know that civilians are supposed to stay inside. We don’t know when the elves will attack.”

The man looks amused, somewhat, smoothing his dusty clothes over. “I didn’t know that. I’ve traveled here to find something that I lost a while ago.”

“ You chose the worst time for that,” Stan huffs, stalking further into the forest. “Kupa Keep cannot handle anymore people. We are barely managing ourselves.” He slides his blade into its sheath and scrubs irritably at his cheek. “This winter hasn’t ended yet. The elves must have cast some kind of spell.”

The man hums, hands clasped behind his back. “I don’t think so. Their lands are suffering as well. This winter is affecting all of Zaron, not just humanity.”

“ How do you know that?” Stan asks sharply. Although the Elven Kingdom does not have many humans within its borders and are loyal to the kingdom, there are a few, and they’re always devastatingly strong, the kind of enemies that Stan faces alone, without his soldiers for fear of them getting killed as collateral. No human has entered the Elves’ territory, as far as Stan has heard, and as both the general of the army and the head of security, he’s briefed on any threats the Elf King sends.

The man shakes his head. “I merely passed it. The border between our lands is thin indeed, and it is easy to catch a glimpse of what it looks like.” He glances at Stan, lips twisting. “They are all suffering. This war is pointless when, soon enough, when the men who fight it die of hunger.”

Stan’s stomach twists at the thought. “That will not happen.”

“ Why would it not?”

“ Because I won’t let it happen. They’re my men. I take care of them. I won’t let them starve.”

The man only sighs. “Even you cannot fight against famine and the cold, General Marshwalker.” He reaches out to lay a hand on Stan’s elbow in comfort. “I feel the same for those who work under me.”

Stan hisses out a breath between his teeth. “And who are you to compare yourself to me?”

The man only smiles. “I am a leader, just like you. Now, come, it is cold, and I do not know where the gate is.” He tugs at Stan’s cloak and Stan follows, sighing heavily. This man must be a noble or  _ something.  _ His behavior is not unlike the ones in the capital, if only less stuck up, and Stan is loath to offend him. He doesn’t need more nobles on his back; he has to deal with that enough already. They demand food, they demand firewood, they demand protection, and damn the common citizens that suffer because of it. Stan hates them.

“ Where are you from?” Stan asks, taking the lead. “I have not caught your name, either; you have me at a disadvantage, my lord.”

The man blinks at him. “My lord?”

“ Are you not a noble?” Stan asks dryly. “If so, I apologize.”

“ Oh—no. I am a noble. My name is Brad. I apologize, General Marshwalker.”

Stan shrugs. “It is of no consequence. Do not lower yourself to apologize to me. I am not of noble birth.”

Lord Brad frowns. “That may be so but that does not mean that you do not deserve respect.”

Stan laughs as they approach the gates. “Tell me about it. A lot of the nobles here don’t have the slightest hint of empathy.”

“ Well,” Lord Brad says after a long moment, “that’s on them. At least the citizens have you to look after them, right?”

Stan’s cheeks heat up. “Uh—right. Yeah. Listen, do you—have a place to stay? I know a good inn.”

Lord Brad grins, and it’s like Stan’s a boy again, with nothing to worry about other than avoiding his sister and her wrath, because he grins back. “I would like a recommendation, yes.”

“ Then follow me.” Stan waves off a guard, chatting with the new noble happily. Citizens and soldiers alike look at him bewilderment, and he remembers, all of a sudden, the fact that he hasn’t smiled in months. He hasn’t had reason to. And, now that he thinks about it, he didn’t smile at anyone but kids, and even then it would be strained.

The war wears everyone down; Stan is only another causality.

“ General Marshwalker?” Lord Brad’s voice snaps him out of his brooding and Stan blinks once, twice, then gives him a sheepish grin.

“ Sorry. Didn’t mean to go quiet, my lord.” He pauses. “And you can call me Stan.”

Lord Brad laughs, the sound warm and smooth. “Then you may call me Brad. Now, what were you telling me about that thief?”

Stan snorts, easily falling into step with the noble again. “Kit? She’s a rough one, to be sure. Skilled, but,  _ jeez,  _ the things she gets into. One time she got caught up in a feud between two noble houses while already in the middle of one between two business owners.”

“ How did she get out of  _ that _ one?”

“ Hell if I know. She’s a quiet one, to be sure, but she manages to charm her way out of situations that would kill anyone else. I heard she talked the Bard into letting her go.”

“ _ No.” _

“ _ Yes,”  _ Stan cackles.

“ The Bard?”

“ Don’t ask me how! I wasn’t there. But she left one day and came back with a letter from the Bard!”

“ Well, now I must meet her. Anyone who manages to do  _ that  _ must be an incredible asset to the kingdom.”

Stan bites his lip. “She’s…she’s been missing for a few months, now. The Grand Wizard sent her out on a quest. I don’t know when she’ll return.”

Lord Brad frowns. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, Stan. It sounds like you liked her.”

Sighing, Stan shrugs. “I mean, yeah. But in this day and age you can’t get too attached. Especially if you fight.”

“ I suppose so.” Lord Brad hums. “Is that the inn?”

Stan glances at the building. “Yep. That’s Red’s alright.” He stops, bowing low. “It was an honor to meet you, my lord. I hope we may cross paths again someday.”

Lord Brad smiles, but there’s something—sad about it. Like he knows they won’t meet again. Stan only has time to tilt his head in confusion before it disappears, fading into a polite smile. “Indeed. I hope we do, General Marshwalker.”

He turns on his heel and walks into Red’s, Stan staring after him in confusion. What was that about?

And why did he see a flash of red under traveling clothes?

* * *

While Lord Brad was a wonderful distraction, Stan finds himself swept up into the routine and drama of his job within a minute of returning to the castle. Jason comes running up, five scrolls in his arms, each marked with the red seal that means  _ urgent.  _ Todd’s been having problems with sharpening the swords due to the materials he has, and the Grand Wizard requests his presence at once.

Stan sighs. “Jason, take those scrolls to my office. Todd, write a report and I’ll make a request. Is there anything else?”

“ Elves have been spotted in the East,” Tobias says quietly, knuckles white on his bow. The room falls silent.

Stan clears his throat. “How many?”

“ No more than ten.”

Stan closes his eyes, frowning. “Find out their specialties. If there are any healers, archers, swordsmen. You know the drill. I’ll put together a team when I return from my meeting with the Grand Wizard.”

Tobias nods, steady as stone. “Yes, Sir.”

“ Thank you.” Stan casts a critical eye over the small gaggle of soldiers gathered around him. “The rest of you, go train. We’re in a vulnerable position, here, and those elves might be scouting for weaknesses.”

They straighten, saluting. “Yes, Sir!”

Stan watches them go then pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t catch a fucking break, can he?

No matter. If the Grand Wizard has called for him, he must arrive, no matter how distasteful he finds him. He straightens his armor and makes his way to the throne room. The Grand Wizard is already there, sitting on the throne and idly stroking the gem topping his staff with his thumb. His gaze is far away, and Stan knows he’s thinking. About what, he can’t possibly guess, but the Grand Wizard has been alive for at least two centuries. Nobody knows what goes through his head.

Princess Kenny sits beside him on her own throne, blue eyes blazing and hair turning golden in the sunlight. Butters stands next to her, sword nowhere to be seen. They both smile at him when he enters and Stan smiles back, briefly, before turning his attention to the Grand Wizard and dropping to one knee.

“ My lord,” he murmurs. “You asked for my presence.”

The Grand Wizard looks down at him, lips curling into a sneer. “Indeed I did, Stanley. Tell me, were you aware elves were spotted nearby?”

“ Yes,” Stan replies. “Scouts have been dispatched to find out their skills so that we do not lose more soldiers than necessary. Ideally, we won’t lose any—”

“ That is not what I meant, you idiot!” The Grand Wizard shouts, the sound of it echoing as his eyes blaze with fury. “I meant the elves that were spotted within a day’s walk of here! From the South!”

Stan stops breathing. “No. I had not.”

“ Of course you didn’t.” The Grand Wizard taps the bottom of his staff onto the floor. Stan wheezes as a blast of wind slams into his chest, sending him to his back. “That is why I am sending you, and only you, to fight them.”

“ How many are there?” Princess Kenny asks, rising out of her seat. “General Marshwalker is a great warrior, true, but not even he can fight against a whole troop of elves.”

The Grand Wizard says, nasty and mean, “Fifteen.”

“ _ Fifteen?” _ Butters demands, voice shaking. “That’s—no human can take on that many elves without magic! General Marshwalker can’t use the kind of magic required for that!”

The Grand Wizard snarls, turning towards him in a swirl of robes, and snaps, “Would you rather go instead, Paladin Butters?”

Butters pales and Princess Kenny steps in front of him, bristling. “Butters is  _ my  _ paladin,” she says coldly. “You do not get to order him around,  _ Eric Cartman.” _

The Grand Wizard’s eyes narrow, and his magic rises, a wave of malcontent. Princess Kenny responds in kind, her own magic pushing back against his. Stan shares a wide eyed look with Butters and hurriedly says, “I will go. I merely ask that I prepare my troops for when I am gone.”

“ Granted,” Princess Kenny says without looking away from the Grand Wizard. “Go, General Marshwalker. You are to leave in five hours, and you may take the swiftest steed you can find.”

“ Thank you, Your Majesty.” Stan bows, straightens, and hurries out into the hallway. The door shuts behind him just before the Grand Wizard starts screaming. Stan winces; the older the princess becomes, the more the two of them clash, and it is difficult to believe that the Grand Wizard would give up the authority he has now. Few can defeat him in sheer power, but—the McCormick line has an intrinsic claim to the throne, to Kupa Keep, and unless he can break that, the crown will always choose Princess Kenny.

The Stick of Truth can shatter blood magic. Stan doesn’t like to think of that.

By the time he returns to where his troops await, there’s a nervous buzz amongst them; they’re anxious, Stan knows, and he takes a deep breath. He must reassure them. Kupa Keep is vulnerable, and they need answers.

“ Have we any news?” he says, striding in. His posture is straight and confident, his voice loud and clear. The tension dissipates. “Well?”

Tobias comes forward. “There is a healer, two archers, and two close combat. We do not know their magical abilities, but we presume it is the typical ones that all elves have.”

Stan nods slowly. “Alright…Take an archer who knows the area and can climb trees—they’ll need to be able to hide to take out the healer—and a thief who can sneak past them. Two warriors, as well. If you feel that you need a healer as well, you may take one. Go, assemble the troops. I’m trusting you, Tobias, to make sure these men come home.”

Tobias inclines his head. “I will not let you down.”

“ I should hope not.” Stan grimaces. “I have an announcement to make. The Grand Wizard has sent me on a quest. I will be gone for three days. I am placing Token in charge. No decisions are to be made without going through him first. I am to leave in five hours, but I will leave sooner.”

“ Understood,” Jason says gravely. “Do you require any supplies?”

“ None that I cannot gather myself.” Stan cracks his neck. “I will be in my office. If you need anything, do not hesitate to tell me.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he walks away. He needs to plan. He needs to figure out how the  _ hell  _ he isn’t going to die, and whether or not he has strong enough mead so he can numb the panic sluggishly pulsing in his veins.

Gods above,  _ why _ did he accept this position in the first place? Right. Because he wasn’t given a choice at all.

Stan sighs, sitting down behind his desk and rubbing his hands over his face tiredly. Ugh.  _ Ugh.  _ He really doesn’t want to leave. There is not enough food provided to the soldiers that he can, in good conscience, take any. He hasn’t eaten in a day in a half, but he has gone longer without, and his mind has not yet begun failing him.

He sits back in his chair and pulls out the bottle of alcohol from under a sheet. He shakes it, grimacing at the lack of weight, and pops it open. It burns going down, but the warmth of it is enough to make his heart calm. The winter always makes his reliance on this stuff worse.

“ Shit,” he says weakly. “I’m going to die.”

Mother _ fucker.  _ His  _ life. He hates it. _

* * *

The forest is cold, when he leaves Kupa Keep. Cold and wet, and Stan wrinkles his nose as the small ball of light hovers beside him—a gift from Butters before he left. He nudges his horse forward, unwilling to stay in one spot. Even though Kupa Keep controls this land, there are monsters that linger in the shadows, just waiting for a moment of opportunity. Stan knows how to fight elves and humans. Not creatures.

He never was good at hunting. His uncle despaired of him but there was little he could do when Stan couldn’t bring himself to kill animals for no reason. He’s good at killing men, elves—not animals. It’s a flaw of his that his sister made fun of relentlessly, but Stan could change it no more than the color of the sky. Shelly always was the better hunter out of the two of them—cruel when need be, willing to use deadly force on those who did not gain her ire.

Stan shivers, the leather reins creaking in his grip. Shelly was never able to take her talent out of their little village. The war came for them long before she was ready to leave.

“ Fuck, I need to stop thinking,” he mutters. Nothing ever good comes out of him thinking, and the elves have probably left the spot they were last spotted. He keeps an eye on the shadows; elves, and Drow Elves specifically, are good at manipulating their environment. Stan’s heard stories of the Elf King willing entire forests into existence.

He rides, careful not to lead his horse into anything. He left the relative safety of Kupa Keep for one thing—to find and kill the elves. He can’t afford to lose his only quick way back. Humanity isn’t adept at making the monsters obey their will.

Sometimes Stan wonders why they fight this endless war, if the elves have such an advantage over them. But those are treasonous thoughts, and Stan still isn’t certain if the Grand Wizard can’t read minds. It does sound like a skill he would cultivate.

There’s a rustle of leaves. Stan straightens, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword as he brings his horse to a stop. It could be birds or a squirrel, but vigilance has saved his life more than once; he strains his ears for any noises, be they breathing or the quiet crunch of boots on snow.

Nothing. Still, he doesn’t let go of his sword and keeps riding forward. Eventually, they will stop watching him, if they are watching him at all. He’s too tempting of a target—the general of humanity’s army, alone with only a sword to defend himself with? Only a fool would give up such an advantage, and for all the elves are deadly, they are no fools.

It takes another twenty minutes before he hears something again. This time Stan doesn’t stop. He doesn’t tense, he doesn’t slow. He keeps on, determined to make his enemies attack him first. It’s never good to give the first blow at an enemy one cannot see.

His patience is rewarded; only five minutes after, the glint of metal makes him leap off his horse and tumble to the ground, an arrow flying where he was only a mere second before. Stan scrambles to his feet, slapping his horse’s flank to get it to run—it will only get in the way, now. The shaft of the arrow is quivering from where it landed in a trunk, and Stan narrows his eyes at where the shot came from. “I know you’re there. Have honor and fight me in the open.”

There’s a quiet laugh. “Now, why would we do that?”

Stan scowls. “Because you would be a coward if you did not. Come out.  _ Now.  _ Or are you too scared to fight a human in the night, where you have the better vision?”

“ We know you, General Marshwalker.” There’s a flash of bright green fabric. “You have killed many of us.”

“ You have killed many of mine,” Stan counters. “Come out.”

A huff of exasperation, and Stan jumps back, a dagger almost impaling his stomach. He cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders as elves melt out of the woods, encircling him. He turns in a circle, taking them all in. Three archers. Four mages. Two healers. One thief. Five warriors. If Stan gets out of this alive, it will be a miracle.

He raises his sword, showing none of his fear. “Are you ready to fight?”

The leader smirks. And arrows begin flying. Stan stops wasting time on thinking and starts dodging. Two arrows land in front of him, another almost stabs his eye until he grabs it, and then he’s off. He chops three in half in one blow, slams his fist into the face of an elf, and jumps over the lunge of a warrior. The mages are chanting spells, gathering energy, and although Stan doesn’t have a lot of magical aptitude, even he can see the faint shimmer of magic surrounding them. He curses, slams the arrow he’s still holding into the neck of an elf, and throws a dagger at a mage. It’s deflected by a warrior, and Stan curses again, this time insulting the parentage of every elf in existence. He stops wasting his breath and loses himself into the mindlessness of battle. Dodge, attack, kill, get injured, bleed, dodge, kill—

“ You’re as impressive as the stories say, General!” the leader soon calls out. “Any other human would have died by now!”

Stan pants, an arrow embedded deep in his thigh and at least eight elves dead. All of the archers are dead, one healer is gone, three warriors bleeding out into the snow, and one mage is staring at him with blank eyes. Eight. Seven more are still alive.

“ Fuck you,” Stan returns, too tired for any actual eloquence. “What do you want?”

“ What do we always want?”

Growling, Stan rips the arrow out of his leg and tosses it aside. “The Stick of Truth.”

“ Ding ding ding. Got it in one.” The leader smiles. “Care to tell me why you were sent to fight fifteen elves by yourself?”

Stan does not and shows this by spitting at the elf’s feet. The smile twists into a frown. “Come now, General. Even you can’t fight against fifteen of us. Was it your Grand Wizard?”

“ Yes.” Stan finds himself saying, and he bites his tongue hard enough to bleed. A truth spell. When did they cast it?

The elf takes a step towards him, gaze contemplative. “You’re a very beautiful human, General. Has anyone told you that?”

The answer forces itself out regardless of Stan’s efforts, and he drops to his knees. Panting, he says, voice an agonized whisper, “No.”

A hand strokes his cheek. “That’s a shame. You’re very attractive when you’re kneeling. Now, tell me the weaknesses of Kupa Keep.”

“ _ Fuck  _ you, you shitty elf,” Stan spits, blood bubbling at his lips. “I’m not telling you  _ shit.” _

Sighing, the elf waves a hand and the spell strengthens. A scream rips itself free as Stan fights back against the magic. The elf takes his face in hand and smiles at him. In the moonlight, he looks like a doll, all pale skin and cold, dark eyes. “You’re making this more difficult than it has to be,” he tells Stan, a thumb stroking over his cheekbone. “Just give in and the pain will stop.”

“ _ No,”  _ Stan hisses, black spotting his vision. Stan Marshwalker is nothing if not devoted—he would rather slit his own throat than give up secrets that protect those he loves. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

“ So be it.”

Something hits the back of his head and Stan falls, the word fading to nothing.

* * *

He wakes to his face thumping against a horse. Stan blinks, brows furrowing as he tries to remember just where he is—did he end up going to a tavern again and getting drunk out of his mind? No, that can’t be it. The winter has reduced his leisure time to nothing; Kupa Keep needs its general, and Stan would never let it down.

He grimaces when the sensation of ropes digging into his wrists and the ache of having his arms pulled behind his back register. Aw, fuck. Did he get captured? How? No human has permission to go anywhere but an hour away from the capital; with the unpredictable weather, it's safer to keep close.

“ Awake, are you?” a voice says, loud and obnoxious. Stan doesn’t reply. Shit. He did get captured by elves. And all because the Grand Wizard decided to be a dick. Bastard.

Stan is not very charitable, when he first wakes up.

“ Hey, Marshwalker’s awake.” A fingers tangle in his hair—and  _ fuck  _ they took his helmet too, Clyde is gonna give him hell for losing it—and yanks his head up. Stan makes a small noise of pain, eyes tearing up involuntarily. A man grins at him, all fair skin and black eyes, and he—could be considered attractive, if he wasn’t currently looking at Stan like he’s a delicious meal and a bug under his shoe, somehow all at once.

Ew. Bugs for dinner.  _ Gross. _

“ Nice to see you in the world of the living,” the man says, and  _ now _ Stan places him—he’s the leader of the elves that captured him. He’s also the one that, apparently, found him attractive. _ Creep.  _ Stan scowls and he laughs. “Yes, yes, you’re angry. General Marshwalker is known for his calm, though—where did that go?”

Stan does not reply to this. Instead, he spits in his face and twists until he lands on the ground, hands in front of him. The elf makes a sound of fury, wiping it away, but Stan is already running. One thing the elves never seem to account for is adrenaline; humans perform superhuman feats when they’re under extreme stress, and damn is he not under that. Seven elves while he’s tied up like a fucking present? No thanks.

He stumbles over a root, hissing when his ankle gives a twinge of pain—shit, he probably twisted his ankle, Token is going to shout at him until his voice is hoarse, because Stan is always the one who gets hurt the most—and keeps on going. Stan has no idea  _ where  _ he is, exactly, but the sun isn’t in the sky yet, which means that it couldn’t have been too long, and with the snow like this and a prisoner slowing them down, there’s no way that they managed to get far from the original battleground.

Glancing behind him, Stan hurries his pace at the shouts. He cannot be captured again—mostly because of his damaged pride, but also because of the fact that he holds a  _ lot  _ of information the elves would love to get their hands on. He’s been trained to hold out against torture, but considering that the Grand Wizard sent him on what would normally be a suicide quest, rescue wouldn’t be coming.

Stan has spent many long winter nights, warm only by alcohol, wondering just if it was worth it to live. If he got tortured, he would just give up and die. It’s against the very core of his being to stop caring, but—Stan has often thought that if he died, the world wouldn’t miss him much.

“ Fuck,” he says softly, quiet enough that elven ears can’t hear, and slumps against a tree. If he squints, he can see the glow of Kupa Keep over the trees, but the elves are gaining on him, and Stan is at a disadvantage. Elves are naturally faster, naturally stronger—and he has a twisted ankle.

Still, he can’t stop now. Not after all that drama.

He pushes himself off the tree and marches on, making sure his breathing is near silent and his steps the same. Elves are the better predators than humans; the only thing keeping them back is their connection to nature.

He walks for what seems like hours. The elves are never far behind, but he’s figured out where he is, and he knows these woods like the back of his hand. They can’t find him. So…he walks. He marches on, bleeding and aching and limping, but alive, and, eventually, he breaks through the darkness of the forest to see the walls of Kupa Keep. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief, grabbing a rock from the ground and throwing it up at the guards. It hits against the wood but the sound gathers their attention, and Stan waves at them.

“ Let me in!” he shouts, and although he can’t see their faces, he bets they pale. Stan takes pride in his appearance, at least in front of his men, and they’ve never seen him so disheveled. “Get Token!”

“ Sir, yes Sir!”

Stan falls to the ground, the snow soaking his trousers, and waits. He’s home. He’s safe.

He cannot be hurt here.

“ Stan, you  _ dumbass,”  _ Token growls as soon as he sees him. Stan grins weakly.

“ Hey, Token. How are you doing?”

“ Terribly.” Token picks him up bridal style, because of course he does, the strong bastard, and his grip is gentle despite his harsh tone. “Someone sneaked into the castle and stole the Stick of Truth. The Grand Wizard is pissed off.”

“ Oof.” Stan winces. “How mad is he at me?”

Token gives him a strange look. “Why would he be mad at you? He’s the one who sent you on this damn mission.”

Stan sighs. “Well…the Grand Wizard is hardly  _ rational.  _ He’ll want to blame anyone but himself, and I’m the most convenient scapegoat considering the Princess won’t let him blame Butters.”

Token groans. “That stupid,  _ stupid  _ man. What will your punishment be?”

“ Time in the dungeons? Gallows? Hell, I don’t know.” The scars on his back twinge. “Who knows, maybe he’ll just whip me and be done with it.”

Token’s expression darkens and his hold on Stan tightens. “You’re my patient. He won’t do that.”

“ You can’t exactly stop him,” Stan points out, quite reasonably as they step into the castle. Token opens his mouth as if to argue when Tweek comes running up, full of panic.

“ The Grand Wizard is on the— _ ugh _ —war path! Clyde was protecting the Stick of Truth and now he’s banished from time and— _ nigh _ —space!” he shouts, arms flailing about. Craig melts out of the shadows, wrapping an arm around his partner and rubbing his back. Stan frowns.

“ I’m so sorry. I know you guys were close.”

Craig’s expression could have been made of stone. “I’m thinking of killing the Grand Wizard.”

Tweek screeches, fingers scrambling to grab at Craig’s shirt, as though determined to keep his partner with him.  _ “WHAT?  _ Craig, don’t you dare! What if you get caught and—and banished?!”

“ That’s why he said thinking,” Token soothes, carefully setting Stan down. “You know that if Craig actually wanted to do it, he would have done it already.”

Craig hums, pressing a kiss to Tweek’s forehead. “He’s right, honey. If I was serious then I would already be banished.”

Tweek wheezes, deflating as Craig trails his fingers up his spine and gently tugs at the hair at the nape of his neck. “D—don’t joke about stuff like that,” he mumbles, and Craig murmurs an apology. Stan watches them, somewhat envious; their relationship is strong and loving and everything Stan wants for himself. The two of them are perfectly suited for one another, and it shows.

He clears his throat after a couple seconds. “Did the Grand Wizard say anything about me?”

Craig tilts his head. “Don’t know,” he replies, their friendly hostilities set aside at the moment. “I left right after he banished Clyde.”

Stan hisses through his teeth. “Shit. He’s gonna be calling for me soon. Token, you’d better take the opportunity to heal me. I’m gonna need it.”

Token scowls but pulls out a potion nevertheless. “If he hurts you to the point where you can’t stand,” he threatens as he pours the entire bottle down Stan’s throat, “then  _ I’m  _ going to be the next one banished. You’re  _ my _ patient.”

Stan grins. “Thanks, Token. Now go on, the three of you. I’ll see you later.”

Tweek gives him an anxious look, clearly unwilling to leave him behind, but Craig nods and drags his friends away. Stan stands in the middle of the hallway, breathes through the pain, and heads to his office. It won’t be long until his presence is demanded by his furious regent, and he needs to look his best.

If he doesn’t, he can kiss any chance of not dying goodbye. The Grand Wizard does not tolerate sloppiness in his officers.

He dresses in his second best armor; not the best, because then it would be obvious that he was trying to suck up, but the  _ second  _ best, because if he showed up in anything less his punishment would be worse. He pulls the tunic on, secures the arm braces, ties his cape around his shoulders, and shoves his feet into his good pair of leather boots. He doesn’t put on the chest plate—it would only make the Grand Wizard defensive—but straps his sword to his side. He puts a spare helmet on, and that’s that. Just in time, too; someone knocks on the door just as he finishes adjusting his cape.

“ Come in,” he says, and Butters walks in, face pale and drawn. “Butters. Has he called for me?”

“ Y—yes. Stan, I—“

“ Don’t. It’s not your fault. Now, go to Princess Kenny. You know how she gets if you aren’t by her side when the Grand Wizard is in this kind of mood.”

Butters shakes his head. “I was ordered to bring you myself. The princess is locked in her room; she refuses to leave after…after Clyde.”

“ Oh shit,” Stan says under his breath. If Princess Kenny won’t be there to act as a buffer then this will be absolutely terrible. Stan would like to go say hello to those elves again, now. Butters doesn’t say anything, only starts walking, and it’s awkward but if they tried to talk then Stan would probably do something drastic, like throw himself out a window, so it’s for the best that they don’t.

By the time they reach the throne room, Stan is as tense as a bowstring.

“ Good luck,” Butters whispers, blue eyes big and sad, and Stan musters up the energy to give him a smile.

“ Everything will be fine, Butters. Just wait. I’ll walk out of here right as rain.”

Butters giggles. “I would like to see that—haven’t had rain in a bit.”

“ See? Don’t worry.” Stan straightens, raising his chin and pulling his shoulders back so that he’s not so much  _ Stan the human  _ as  _ Stan the general.  _ Then, he opens the door and strides in. The Grand Wizard is sitting on his throne, knuckles white around his staff. The raised pedestal behind the thrones that typically displays the stick of truth is barren. Even the pillow has vanished. Stan keeps his gaze to the right of the Grand Wizard’s face so that he’s not looking him in the eyes. “You called for me?”

The Grand Wizard’s eyes narrow and his lips peel back in a snarl. Stan refuses to let himself be intimidated. His ruler stands, slowly, the stone at the top of his staff glowing. “Yes,” he says, voice dangerously even, “I did. Do you see what’s missing from this throne room, General?”

“ The Stick of Truth, sir.”

The Grand Wizard steps closer, robes whispering across the stone floor. “And why were you not here to protect it?”

Stan doesn’t flinch. “I was away on a mission, sir. I was instructed to drive away fifteen elves, and I did not return until thirty minutes ago.”

The Grand Wizard’s staff catches him on the jaw. Stan yelps, unable to stop the sound from escaping his throat, as he falls. “Call me  _ Your Majesty,  _ goddammit! I am your king!”

Stan gets to his feet, feeling blood fill his mouth from where he bit his tongue. “You are not my king, sir. You are the Regent. In a years time, Princess Kenny will be of age and—“

A foot lands in his chest, sending him flying onto his back. “I am the king, you idiot! I hold the crown! I sit on the throne!  _ I am king!” _

“ You are an advisor,” Stan corrects. “I bow to you because you are my leader. Not because you are my king.”

The world seems to—tilt. Like everything has gone out of focus. Stan pants, feeling his ribs ache and pressure build against his lungs. But the magic in the air is unmistakable; it tastes sour and rotten, and it’s stronger than it has any right to be. The Grand Wizard has cast a spell.

“ Do you know what I do when I find people who disrespect me?” the Grand Wizard asks, quiet as Stan struggles to sit up. Without waiting for a reply, he says, “I banish them. I kill them. I cause them to live their worst nightmares for eternity. Clyde feared being alone. What do you fear, Stan Marshwalker?”

Stan doesn’t know.

“ What do you  _ fear,  _ Marshwalker?” The Grand Wizard swings his staff and it slams into the side of Stan’s head; his vision blinks in and out. “Do you fear nothing? Do you fear everything? No man is a human if he does not have a fear.  _ What do you fear?” _

Stan can’t breathe. He can’t breathe past the overwhelming pressure of magic, past the pain, past the dull terror he feels well up in his gut at the sight of the Grand Wizard before him, almost divine, power given form, and he can’t breathe. He wheezes, broken fingernails digging into the floor, and doesn’t say a word. He  _ can’t, _ first of all, and doesn’t because the Grand Wizard doesn’t want him to.

“ Answer me!” The Grand Wizard raises his staff again and Stan braces himself for the blow, jaw already clenched to keep his scream in, when the doors slam open.

Stan goes limp under the freezing cold magic, one that feels like Death’s fingers gripping his shoulder, and rolls his head over to see Princess Kenny storming in, Token and Butters a step behind.

“ What are you doing?” she demands, coming to a step between Stan and the Grand Wizard. Token and Butters kneel beside him, gently helping him to his feet. “What are you doing to our general?”

The Grand Wizard smirks. “Teaching him a lesson.”

Stan coughs, blood dripping from his mouth, and Token’s eyes  _ blaze,  _ even as he places a hand on his stomach, healing magic sinking into his skin. The princess stiffens even more at the sound of it.

“ You almost killed our strongest fighter!”

“ He didn’t defend the Stick of Truth!”

“ _ He was on a mission you sent him on!”  _ Princess Kenny clenches her fist. “Token. Take him to the infirmary. Butters, go with them.”

“ Princess—“

“ I will be fine. Go.”

Token nods, once, and carries Stan away, Butters scurrying anxiously after them. Stan grimaces and doesn’t look back.

* * *

“ Shit,” Stan hisses, ribs twinging in pain as he leans against the wall. His men are training, swords flashing, knives glinting, and a quiet sort of pride smolders in his chest. He taught them well—for some of them, they hadn’t even touched a weapon before he got his hands on them, and now they’re warriors, ready to go to war for their country. They’re doing well, and Stan is so,  _ so  _ proud of them.

“ David! Watch your footwork! You’ll overbalance if you don’t fix it!” he shouts, watching as the man in question immediately adjusts his stance. Alex spins on his heel and strikes at a wooden dummy, but it wasted momentum and was unnecessarily flashy. Stan frowns and straightens. “Alex, what did I tell you about that? I don’t care if your older brother taught it to you—you are under my command and when I tell you that will get you killed I  _ mean it.  _ If you won’t listen to me then you will leave this army.” At this point everyone has stopped dead in their tracks, eyes on him, and Stan narrows his eyes at a shaken Alex. “Do you understand me?”

“ Yes,” he murmurs, looking at the ground, and Stan sighs.

“ Just don’t do it again, okay?” He pushes himself off the wall. “I’m going to my office.  Tobias, have them run drills for another hour then run ten laps.”

Tobias nods. “Of course, sir. Is there anything else you require of me?”

“ No.” Stan graces his troops with a look and then leaves. The moment he’s out of sight, he clutches at his side and collapses against a door, gasping for breath. Gods above, it’s been a week and it  _ still hurts.  _ Ugh.

“ Stan?” asks a voice, and Stan jerks his head up to see Wendy. She’s dressed in armor, a dagger strapped to her thigh and sword in its sheath against her back. He smiles in greeting then groans. Alarm flickers across her face and she rushes to hold him up, one arm curled around his shoulders. “Oh my gods, Stan, are you okay?”

Right, she’s been on a mission to Valkyrie territory. She doesn’t know.

“ No,” he grunts as she starts leading him down the hallway. “The Grand Wizard is pissed at me.”

“ For losing the Stick of Truth? But I heard that wasn’t your fault!”

“ It wasn’t.” He sighs. “But the Grand Wizard seems to think it is. And you know how he gets.”

Wendy huffs, irritated. “Yes, I’m well aware.” She hesitates. “Do you know a way to get his anger...away from you?”

“ No, I—” Stan pauses, confused when he sees Butters waving at them through the open gap of a door. “Butters?”

“ Stan, Wendy, get in here! Princess Kenny wishes to speak with you!” Butters turns and vanishes. Exchanging a mystified look with Wendy, Stan follows,  leaving her in the hallway. The door closes behind them and a spark of magic makes a lamp brighten like the sun. Stan winces and squints his eyes, trying to see beyond the spots in his vision.

“ Stan.” He blinks, his eyesight clearing enough to see Princess Kenny. She’s dressed in casual clothes—dark brown pants, a bright orange tunic, and her hair twisted into a braid. Her eyes are cold. “I have a  mission for you.”

Stan bites back a sigh. Will he ever get a break?

“ What is it, Your Majesty?” he asks, struggling to straighten up.

She turns away from him, picking up a paper from a table in the middle of the room. Butters is sitting on the floor, turning his war hammer over in his hands. He looks troubled. Like something is about to happen that he doesn’t like.

That’s never a good sign. Butters is generally the person one turns to for moral ideas.

“ Princess?” Stan says after a moment of silence, slightly worried now. “What is the mission?”

She sighs. “Stan, the Grand Wizard has been making noises of banishing you the way he did Clyde.”

“ He’s  _ what?” _

Princess Kenny hands the piece of paper. “That’s why I have a mission for you. Get the Stick of Truth back, and all will be forgiven. I have convinced him that banishing Clyde was a hasty move, and if you manage to prove yourself to him again he will bring him back.”

Stan frowns, scanning the paper. It’s a declaration; a report. “Stan Marshwalker is to retrieve the Stick of Truth within half a year or…” His mouth dries. “Or he will be banished from time and space for all eternity, never to gain his eternal rest.” He clenches his fist. “He can’t do that!”

“ He can until I come of age,” Princess Kenny replies grimly. “That is why you  _ must  _ do this, Stan. You cannot fail this mission. If you don’t then…”

“ I’m gone.” Put like that, Stan can’t really refuse, can he?

He puts his fist on his heart and bows his head. “I accept this mission, Your Majesty. I will set out in the morning. I  _ will _ retrieve the Stick of Truth.”

She smiles at him, faint and sad. “I know you will.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle and Stan meet for real, and they're both playing games.

By the time Stan leaves Kupa Keep, he doesn’t have a lot in his possession. Just clothes, his sword, a chest plate, and a bag of coins. He’ll be returning, after all, and—he isn’t exactly in a rush to do so. He’s felt suffocated by Kupa Keep for months now, after all. This is his first chance in a long time to be _free._

He hasn’t seen the kingdom in years. Not since he traveled from his ruined village, smelling of smoke and tasting ash, numb to everything. He’s only ever seen battlefields. Death and blood, and he’s witnessed little else.

He can’t remember what peace feels like. He can only recall the feeling of a wheat sliding against his skin, blackberry thorns pricking his fingers, his mother’s voice singing him to sleep. He lost that when he was six, and he hasn’t thought of it since. Why would he, when it would only make him weak with longing? Why would he, when he is the most deadly warrior in humanity’s army, when he will never have a chance at peace again?

Stan sighs quietly, walking alongside his steed with her reins in his hand. Princess Kenny had offered to fund him—as the future ruler, she has quite the generous allowance. When he’d refused, she’d replied, sarcastic and biting, “What am I going to use it on? Dresses?”

Stan still said no. He couldn’t take the princess’ money. Besides, he’s spent his own coin on little other than alcohol recently, and so he has enough to keep him going as long as he doesn’t spend a lot at once. It has to last him half a year.

The snow is melting. The icicles that hang from the trees are dripping. The world is thawing, heating up, and Stan doesn’t think it’s a coincidence that the elves got their hands on the Stick of Truth. It’s like nature has suddenly remembered that warmth exists beyond fires, and is sprinting full-tilt towards summer.

If the Elf King could do this within a week and the Grand Wizard claims to be stronger than him, then why didn’t this happen before? What kept the Grand Wizard from using it to bring prosperity to his kingdom?

He shakes his head. No, he can’t think that. It leads to doubt, which is not something he needs. Still…he isn’t sure what he wants. Or what he should think. Thinking is dangerous, these days, and he doesn’t want to get into hot water. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.

His horse makes an unhappy sound, tossing her head in annoyance. He sighs, patting her neck. “I know.” He squints up at the sky. “We should stop to eat. I know you’re hungry, at least.”

He leads her to a stream, tying her to a nearby branch and leaving her to graze. He takes his helmet off and runs a hand through his hair, squinting up at the sky. It’s midday, at least, with some clouds spread across the sky. They look like mist, or steam, which is what they are. He can rest for a little bit. He’s already been on the road for a day and a half, and he’s gotten tired of thinking. He wants to _do_ something. He’s better with fighting than things like that; Token always told him he was a lost cause.

His chest aches at the thought of Token. He was Stan’s first friend when he first arrived in the capital, a boy unable to do anything but exist. Token didn’t have to be. He was—is—the heir to one of the wealthiest and most influential noble families in the kingdom despite the Grand Wizard’s best attempts otherwise. He didn’t have to do that. He could have just kept walking when he saw Stan training at one in the morning, trying to get the memories out of his head. But he did. He stopped and he talked and he always, _always_ heals Stan when he gets hurt.

He misses him. Misses the way he would laugh when startled, the way his eyes would widen and his cheeks darken when flustered, the way he always held his patients gently, no matter how furious he was. Misses the way he would show up to Stan’s office, holding some food and a patient smile, ready to nag until Stan gave in. He misses _Token,_ and he isn’t in the mood to look into why it feels like he’s missing a limb. It wasn’t like this the other times he left Kupa Keep. Then again, he knew he would return. He…doesn’t know if he will live this time. He’s good but even he can’t hold off a whole battalion of elves, and the Elf King would likely fight to protect the Stick. He can’t stand up against the Elf King, or anyone holding the Stick of Truth.

He wrinkles his nose. Ugh, _introspection._ He needs to gather wood for a fire. He needs his energy and he skipped supper last night, too preoccupied with coming up and discarding infiltration plans. He still hasn’t decided on one.

He steps carefully through the woods, careful not to step on any twigs and make noise. He manages to gather enough kindling and logs, and when he returns to the stream he finds his pack gone. Stan drops the firewood and draws his sword, eyes sharp as he glances around. His horse is fine. She’s drinking water now, unconcerned, but elves have a way with animals. They could have calmed her down. Dammit. _Dammit._ He was stupid. He’s close to elven patrol routes, why did he think it would be a good idea to rest?

“Who’s there,” he shouts. “What have you done with my supplies?”

An elf melts out of the shadows. Judging by his uniform, he’s an enforcer. Easy.

“What are you doing near our kingdom, Marshwalker?” he demands, and his hands shake. Stan’s probably the scariest thing he’s ever seen. He can’t bring himself to care all that much.

“What does it matter to you?” he replies slowly, unwilling to let his guard down. Elves never travel alone. “Where’s your partner?”

“That—that doesn’t matter,” the elf shoots back. “Why are you near the border?”

Stan sighs, sliding into an attack position, sword held in front of him. “I don’t suppose you’ll be willing to let this go?”

They draw their swords in response.

“Well, it’s your funeral,” Stan says, digging his heels into the ground, and then he’s off, so fast that the elf barely has a second to react, sword coming up instinctively to do a clumsy parry. Stan applies more pressure and he gasps, bones creaking under the strain. “If you don’t want to die, I would suggest you leave me alone. I’ve killed stronger elves than you, kid.”

The elf’s face twists in anger. “I know! You killed my brother!” He ducks under Stan’s attack and weaves around him like water. “You’ve killed so many of us!”

“I know,” Stan says tiredly. He knows. He’s lost count of how many he’s killed but it’s—different to meet someone who knew them. For all Stan knows, his brother could have been someone Stan left to bleed to death, moving forward with the flow of battle.

“No, you don’t!” The elf’s eyes dart over Stan’s shoulder. “You’ll find out.”

There’s a rustle of air and an arrow embeds itself in his shoulder. Stan gasps, stumbling under the blow as five more elves jump from the trees to the earth. Stan grits his teeth, reaching up and snapping the arrow in half. He can’t afford to let them take him. He’ll _die_ before he does.

He lifts his sword, ready to give them hell. “Bring it on, elves.”

With a cry, they charge.

* * *

Kyle's in the middle of Court when he gets the news.

"Lord William," he starts, eyes narrowed and fingers twitching, "I understand that you are upset, but that does not give you the ability to raise the taxes on the people in your region. The land belongs to the king, and the king sets the taxes. If you wanted more funding, you should have gone through the official channels. As it is, I am redirecting the money given to you to the Farmer's Guild."

Lord William, an elf twice Kyle's age but significantly weaker, turns red with anger. Kyle tilts his head. "Do you have a problem with my ruling, Lord William?"

"No," he grinds out, "Your Highness."

"Call him Your Majesty," a guard snaps, bristling. "Do not disrespect your king!"

Kyle holds up a hand. "It does not matter what he calls me. As long as he accepts what I have declared." His crown rustles, the wood growing with a glow of magic as he stares the noble down. "Do you have anything else to add, Lord William?"

Lord William looks as though he wants to scream. It's a very satisfying sight. Honestly, the nerve of him, thinking he could do that under Kyle's nose. "No."

"Then make room for the next noble."

It is undoubtedly an order and one that Lord William has to obey—he has already lost much face in the last ten minutes, and if he defied the king one more time then Kyle would be well within his rights to challenge him to a duel. One that Lord William would _lose._ And in quite a humiliating fashion.

Lord William, hands clenched into fists, nods and turns around in a swirl of rich purple and silver. Kyle props his elbow on the armrest of his throne and rests his chin on top of his palm. "Next."

Another noble takes a step forward. Lady Heidi, from one of the more influential Houses in the kingdom, and also Kyle's age. She curtsies, looking radiant in her green gown, pink flowers woven into her braid. "I greet His Majesty."

"Heidi. What brings you to my Court?"

Heidi smiles and opens her mouth, no doubt to give some kind of wild story, when the doors burst open. A guard stands there, out of breath and looking a mix between panicked and exhilarated. Kyle sits up straight, all of his attention suddenly given focus.

"What is it?" he demands sharply, and the guard takes a deep breath, then salutes.

"Your Majesty, a patrol group is coming back with a human prisoner. It is Stanley Marshwalker."

Shock ripples through the room. "Marshwalker? The general?" people whisper to each other, fearful and confused. “What was he doing near our territory? Doesn’t he stay with his troops?”

“Is he here yet?” Kyle says, standing. “Are they taking him through the capital?”

“No, they are an hour out. I pushed my steed to the limit.” The guard straightens. “I will send a carrier raven to tell them your orders.”

Kyle wants to bite his lip. He wants to show a sign that he’s thinking. But that would be taken as uncertainty, as weakness, and he _knows_ better than to show that. He turns to look at the Court. “Leave,” he snaps. “Now. We will continue this at a later date.”

Shaken, the nobles leave, leaving Kyle alone with his guards. He narrows his eyes in thought, knuckles turning white around his staff. “Tell them to go through the woods. Do not let the citizens see Marshwalker.” He pauses. “Did we lose any men in taking him down?”

The guard hesitates. “Two are in critical condition. There were five in the patrol group. To be frank, we only one because we shot an arrow with poison into his shoulder.”

“He was alone?”

“Yes.”

Kyle falls silent. Marshwalker is rarely, if ever, alone. He always has that cleric with him, or at least two other soldiers. He is a force unto himself, capable of taking down elves like a whirlwind. He is the boogeyman of the Elven Kingdom, and he cannot use any battle magic. It’s all pure skill, which is more terrifying than anything else. “Did he say why he was here?”

“He…he mentioned a mission.”

Kyle’s mind flashes to the Stick of Truth. No, the humans _can’t_ take it. He’s only just begun repairing the damage left by the Grant Wizard!

“Give him the antidote and then leave him in the dungeons. I will question him myself.”

The guard bows. “Of course, Your Majesty.” He turns and runs out of the room. Kyle sighs heavily, rubbing at his temples. Chris drifts closer, laying a hand on his arm.

“Everything will be okay,” he murmurs, quiet enough that no one else could hear it. Kyle gives him a strained smile and takes one step to the side. Chris has always liked him in that way, since they were kids. Kyle just… can’t return his feelings. The first time he held the Stick of Truth in his hands, all those centuries ago, when he first took the throne, he got a flash of—something. Eyes the color of the summer sky, a warm laugh, big hands cradling his face, the overwhelming knowledge that he was _loved_. Kyle never told anyone of it. How could he? He’s the king, and although he’s managed to avoid marriage so far, he’s always known that his marriage would be a political one. Most likely, he would be wed to Heidi.

But he’s never forgotten that glimpse of what-could-be. He wants that, desperately. He’s fantasized late at night about those eyes, those hands, that laugh. He could never bring himself to touch another and his subjects are under the impression that he’s saving himself for marriage. They’re not exactly wrong.

But Chris isn’t the person he saw when he was young, and Kyle can’t lead him on like that, even if he doubts that he can ever find them.

(The only person who ever came close was Marshwalker, in that short time they were together, Kyle under a spell and Marshwalker none the wiser. But it couldn’t be Marshwalker. It couldn’t be.)

“Thank you,” he says, and takes a deep breath. “I will be in my rooms. Tell me when he arrives. I want to be one of the first people he sees.”

Chris bows. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Kyle smiles tiredly and leaves, taking the back entrance. His rooms are covered in seals, in green, and when he closes the door behind him, he can all of his tension leaving him in a rush. He takes his crown off, running his hands through his hair and loosening his robes. The Stick of Truth lays on his dresser, looking unremarkable. Kyle suspects it’s a defense mechanism. Something to make it easier to hide.

He picks it up, sitting on his bed as he turns it over in his hands. Through it, he can feel the entire universe. He can feel the death and decay and life and growth. He closes his eyes and focuses on the world. It was withering away, unable to stand the malice the Grand Wizard had when he held it. Kyle can fix this. He _has_ to fix this. For his kingdom and the person who could love him so completely.

He conjures the image of a healthy forest in the summer. No snow, no ice. Life all around, flourishing and bright, and the Stick obeys. He can feel it spread from his hands to the earth under layers of stone. He pushes it some more, unwilling to leave other realms harmed. Even the humans. When he went to the human kingdom he saw how they were suffering. Unlike the elves, they did not have a connection with nature. They were starving, freezing, _dying,_ and Kyle has always been too empathetic for his own food.

(Marshwalker looked fierce, when he said that he would not let his men die. His voice was full of sorrow when he looked around the capital of Kupa Keep. His laugh sounded like he hadn’t done so for a long while. His grin was blinding. His eyes were _blueblueblue._ But it’s not Marshwalker. How could Kyle love someone who has killed so many of his people?)

The Stick pulses once, twice, and Kyle opens his eyes, exhausted. He lays it on his bedside table and curls under his blankets, shivering as though it was the dead of winter. Using the Stick requires a large amount of energy and concentration, and it’s tiring to use it. His eyes slide closed and he’s out within a minute. He can sleep for an hour.

He falls asleep to images of summer blue eyes and Marshwalker’s smile.

* * *

Stan wakes to metal being locked around his ankle. He blinks, feeling his shoulder ache and head pound. A concussion, then, but what caused his shoulder to bleed?

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when someone strikes him across the face. He spits out a bit of blood, looking at them through his hair. The elf in front of him falters at his glare then rallies himself. “Marshwalker,” he spits. “How kind of you to wake up.”

Stan chuckles. “Well, I’m always happy to oblige.” He narrows his eyes when he feels the lack of metal around his wrists. “Why am I not confined?”

“Do you _want_ to be?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then don’t ask,” the elf huffs, hand glowing green as he runs a hand across Stan’s forehead. The throbbing pain fades and the mild fuzziness around his thoughts disappears. He sighs in relief. He hates concussions. The elf straightens, takes two steps back, and the metal bars slam back into place, leaving Stan trapped. “You will be questioned soon.”

“Great,” Stan replies sarcastically. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. It was the king who said you were not to die.” The elf taps the bars and walks away, their footsteps echoing in the silence. Stan sighs, looking down at his hands. They’re not chained, but they don’t need to be. Without his sword, he can’t break enchantments. He can’t break steel. He isn’t an elf. He’s chained and helpless, and it’s irritating to realize that. He hasn’t been helpless in a long, long time. Even with the Grand Wizard losing his temper, Stan was not helpless. He could have fought back. But now the only thing he has left is his fists and they won’t do a thing to an elf.

He grimaces and sits, leaning against the wall. The dungeons in Kupa Keep are filthy. They’re dark and damp and Stan wants to die every time he goes down there. These cells, though…they’re not too bad. He can feel sunlight, can hear the soft whistling of the wind through trees. Vines crawl down the walls, with dark blue flowers blossoming from buds. Even the chains are of better quality; the Grand Wizard makes sure theirs is made of pure iron, but they’re not cleaned.

What do they want from him? Why did they not kill him from the beginning? It certainly _seemed_ like the elves he fought wanted to kill him. But then the Elf King demanded that he was not to be killed.

Do they want information? Stan was trained to withstand torture. He’s confident he can handle anything they throw at him.

He sighs, chained leg stretched out in front of him and the other pulled halfway up so that he could rest his arm on his knee. He has to get the Stick of Truth. He _has_ to.

He can’t do anything else.

He isn’t sure how long he’s left alone, turning his circumstances over and over in his mind. It’s an interrogation tactic; let the mind make up with the worst possible situations and stress the prisoner out. Stan wants to laugh. What they can do to him could not be worse than what he does to himself on a daily basis.

He sits and he waits. He’s pretty sure he falls asleep at some point. When he opens his eyes, it’s to the sound of a door creaking open. He doesn’t move, unwilling to give them the impression that he holds any kind of respect for them, when a man with fire red hair steps around the corner. His crimson and red robes drag on the floor, a crown of wood on his head.

In his hands, he holds a plate of food. And it’s not the typical food given to prisoners, either; it’s good food. Cheese and bread, with a small pile of berries to the side and a cup of water floating beside him. Stan raises an eyebrow.

“The king himself came down here to see me?” he says as the elf sets the food and water in the cell. “I’m honored.”

“You should be,” the Elf King tells him. “I rarely come down here.” He casts a critical eye about the place. “It does seem they’ve kept up on my instructions for taking care of it.”

“Yeah, thanks for making it _so_ comfortable.”

The king frowns at him. “I have not punished you, nor have I chained you beyond a single manacle around your ankle.”

“Again, thank you _so much_ for putting me in here.”

“You were the one who came near the border,” the king points out, then gestures at the plate. “Eat. We have much to discuss.”

“I’m not going to betray my home,” Stan tells him even as he tugs it over and takes a bite of bread. “I’m not going to crack.”

The Elf King’s smile is anything but kind. “I know you won’t.” He sits in front of the cell, watching as Stan eats. “But I wanted to talk to you. Why were you near our lands?”

“Mission.” Stan takes a drink of water. “I don’t see how it concerns you.”

“It concerns me when the general of the enemy’s army is near my subjects,” the king tells him. “I won’t harm you. I will only speak with you. You may not tell me what I want to know but I will know _you._ Which is more beneficial in the long-run.”

Stan snorts. “How so?”

The king tilts his head. “I can tell what Kupa Keep is willing to give up in order to keep you alive.” He stands in a swirl of fabric, so tall that Stan has to crane his neck to look up at him even when he gets to his feet as well. It only emphasizes how inhuman he is.

“Enjoy your meal,” the Elf King says, almost kindly. “I will be back to talk to you again.”

Stan flips him off when he turns his back, then goes and finishes his food. He doesn’t like to waste it. Especially when he hasn't eaten in a bit.

The elves won’t get anything out of him. He’ll figure a way out of here, grab the Stick, and go home. He just has to wait for the right opportunity, and Stan has always been good at being patient. The king won’t win. Not now, not ever.

Not while Stan still holds loyalty to Kupa Keep.

* * *

Kyle doesn’t like torture. He’ll do it, certainly, but he doesn’t like it. So he doesn’t abuse his prisoners. He treats them well. He heals them, he feeds them, he doesn’t bind them beyond a single chain. Granted, the chain has spells layered upon spells that make using magic impossible, but it’s better than how the Grand Wizard treats his prisoners. They always return with burns from iron. They always return sick.

The Grand Wizard is a poison, one that has spoiled generation after generation of the royal line with his greed. Kyle can’t wait to kill him. But not yet, not yet. Every time he meets him on the battlefield, something happens. The Stick gets stolen, the Grand Wizard retreats before Kyle can end his pitiful life—something always _happens._ It’s infuriating.

But…he has never liked hurting others. So every time he goes down to the dungeons, food in hand, he just talks. To every prisoner. They usually join him after.

“Your Majesty?” Chris says, and Kyle blinks, realizing that he stopped walking. “Are you okay?”

Kyle clears his throat. “Yes. I was just thinking.” He pauses. “Was there anything in Marshwalker’s personal possessions that indicated why he was here?”

Chris shakes his head. “Only money, food, and armor. If he did have anything, he likely destroyed it before he even left Kupa Keep.”

“Dammit,” Kyle mutters, then straightens. “I will continue to deal with Marshwalker myself. Few can stand up to him, and even fewer can deal with him.” 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Chris says with a bow. Jimmy taps his flute against his crutches.

“Do you think you’ll get th-through to him?”

Kyle glances at him. “I don’t think it matters. Not as long as I get what I need.”

“You’ll have to r-resort to some odd me-methods for this one,” Jimmy says in amusement. Kyle’s lips twitch. He knows that. That’s what makes it interesting. Marshwalker is unlike any human he has encountered before. Kyle thinks that he would talk with him just to figure out how he works. Just to see his facial expressions. He’s _fascinating._

“I suppose so,” he agrees, and waves his hand. “Go. I will be doing paperwork.”

“You have a me-meeting at four,” Jimmy tells him, grinning at his immediate groan of disappointment. “Ha-have f-fun.”

“I will not,” Kyle says mulishly, rolling his eyes at Jimmy and entering his rooms. He takes off his robes, wrinkling his nose at the dust that’s gathered on the edges, and throws his crown on his bed. He runs his hand through his hair and wants to sigh. He doesn’t, because that would be stupid, but he wants to do it. There’s piles of paperwork on his desk, just ready to be read and signed. He sits and picks up a quill, grabbing the first paper his fingers touch and starts to read.

It’s mind numbing. He’s used to it—had to get used to it, especially considering he’s lived and done it for so long—but that doesn’t mean it’s any less boring. He reads, he signs, he puts it in the accepted pile or the rejected pile. Eventually, his thoughts wander.

Marshwalker was on his way to get the Stick. No question about it. But there might have been another objective, another goal hidden inside that quest. Is he here to get information? To spy? What about killing Kyle himself? Only the Grand Wizard can do so in a fair fight, but if Kyle was distracted—well. Even a sword through the heart can kill an elf as old as him.

But that also doesn’t make sense. Marshwalker is a man of honor, unlike the Grand Wizard. Kyle has gotten reports of him letting elves go if they are down, weak and unable to defend themselves. He makes himself known if he’s about to attack. He isn’t going to attack anyone from behind. Kyle knows that, somehow, as sure as he knows his own magic.

He blinks. Marshwalker was very—stubborn. No more than any other humans, certainly, but the glint in his eyes, the tilt of his head…it spells trouble. If Kyle can’t convince Marshwalker to see things from his perspective, then the chance to rid humanity of its greatest warrior would be lost forever. It’s a challenge. Kyle hasn’t had a challenge in so very long.

Kyle smiles, a slow and wicked thing, and stands. He got halfway through all of his paperwork so he’s entitled to take a break, and since he’s been working for five hours, it’s dinner time. Marshwalker will need food. Kyle doesn’t starve his prisoners, and he needs to gain Marshwalker’s trust more than anything else.

He debates pulling a robe back on but decides against it. He wants Marshwalker to see him as anyone else. Besides, those things are hot and heavy, and he much prefers being in simple trousers and tunic. He slips some boots on and sends a message to the kitchen, telling them to prepare some food for the prisoner. Some soup and bread, with wine as a drink. He knows that Chris will pick it up for him, so he makes his way down to the dungeons, trailing his hand along the walls. The leaves turn towards him, straining to drink in his magic, and Kyle snorts. He grew these plants; before he took over as king, the dungeons were…small. Cramped. There was nothing that said life could thrive. The first thing he did, once he had time, was to expand the cells, replace the wooden doors with metal bars, and let the world in. It went a long way into making the prisoners live longer. Humans need light and social interaction like they need air, and Kyle doesn’t...think his predecessors knew that.

Humans are different from elves. That’s just a fact of life.

He stops in front of Marshwalker’s cell. The human is sitting on the ground, looking towards the sky. Sunlight streams through the window, lighting up Marshwalker’s face. He’s a handsome person—according to their spies in Kupa Keep, many people want him. Kyle can see why; his face is handsome, with black hair that curls around his cheeks, full lips, long eyelashes, and _blueblueblue_ eyes. His body itself is appealing as well, with wide shoulders, big hands, and strong muscles. His personality is good when one is a human, his laugh is warm. He’s just a striking person all around, and even Kyle is not immune. Although…he’s mainly drawn to his _blueblueblue_ eyes.

Sue him, he has a type. That doesn’t mean he wants to bed the general of Kupa Keep. 

“Enjoying the view?” Marshwalker asks without opening his eyes. “Nice to know all elves are pervs.”

Kyle leans against the bars. “What do you mean?”

“I got caught by some elves the day the Stick of Truth got taken. One of them was a creep.” Marshwalker smirks. “They didn’t keep me, though.”

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Humans can be found attractive, you know. We aren’t blind. We just have…better tastes.”

Marshwalker snorts. “Oh, so you’ve wanted to fuck some human?”

“I’ve never want to, in your words, _fuck_ anyone. There’s someone I’m waiting for.”

“Do you even know who they are?”

“No.”

Marshwalker looks at him incredulously. “You’re keeping yourself from having sex because you’re waiting for someone you don’t even _know?”_

Well, when put like that, it sounds ridiculous. But Kyle knows what he saw, what he felt, and the thought of someone else touching him in that way makes his stomach turn. He shrugs instead of saying any of that. Marshwalker says, “Wow, didn’t know the king of elves would be such a prude. How old are you again?”

“I’ve lost count of the years. At least three thousand.”

Marshwalker coughs. “Excuse me, _what?_ You’re three thousand years old and you’ve never had sex?”

How did they even get to this topic, Kyle wonders, and changes the subject. He can feel his ears burning. “It is not your business of who I bring to bed and who I do not.” He straightens and can see that Marshwalker does the same. It’s time for business.”

“No more small talk,” Marshwalker agrees, crossing his arms. Kyle inclines his head. “Go ahead, ask what you want. You don’t torture, right? You said we're only going to have a conversation. Start.”

Kyle hums, thinking it over. “What kind of person is Princess Kenny?”

Marshwalker blinks. “Why do you want to know?” he asks warily. 

“Well, she’s going to be Queen soon, right? Once she comes of age. Is she going to be like her mother?”

Marshwalker snorts. “ _Hell_ no. The princess is—better. I think she’s tired of this war too.”

“Who isn’t,” Kyle muses. “It has been going on since before I took the throne. I’ve tried my best to make sure it doesn’t reach my subjects…they know peace, or at least the version I can give them.” He glances over at the door when someone clears their throat. Chris stands there with the food he requested. “Thank you, Chris. That will be all.”

Chris bows, one hand over his heart. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Marshwalker laughs and it’s a cruel sound, not one that seems like it would come from someone like him. “What, is he your lapdog?”

Chris immediately snarls. “Don’t you dare reduce my loyalty to my king with those words!”

“Or what?” Marshwalker gestures at his cell and then at Kyle. “You can’t hurt me, not without pissing off your precious _king._ What could you do?”

Chris is vibrating with rage and Kyle sighs, realizing that nothing productive will come out of this. “Enough, Chris. Enjoy your meal, Marshwalker. I hope you think about what I said.”

“About peace?”

Kyle smiles. “Indeed.”

* * *

Stan can’t stop thinking about what the Elf King said. Peace. His subjects know peace. It’s unbelievable. It’s impossible to imagine. Even when Stan lived with his parents in his tiny little village, he knew the war was only a day away on foot, half by horse. His peace was filled with preparations, with making packs of supplies, with glancing over his shoulder and listening for the watchtower.

But peace. Stan, when passing by the border, noticed that there were no villages near it. Every single home was so far away he couldn’t even hear the sounds. There was no tension in the air. The border shimmered with an ancient spell, one that kept him from trying to get through. He knew about this; the Grand Wizard had grumbled about it more than once, complaining that they couldn’t take the land back while the elves could push humanity far away from the border.

The king has stood strong against the Grand Wizard for centuries. Where Kupa Keep has always been tense, grieving over losing their friends and families, fighting back against the elves in any way they could, the elves…know peace.

Stan scoffs. Peace. What peace? In a war that has consumed the world, in a time where the war has been fought for thousands of years. Everyone is affected. There is no way anyone can know peace.

But…what if?

He shakes his head. No. It doesn’t matter. Stan is the strongest warrior Zaron has seen in at least two hundred years, and once he gets the Stick back, once Princess Kenny turns twenty and takes the throne, humanity will _win_ this war. And it may happen when Stan is older or as soon as possible, but the humans will win this war.

He needs to stop thinking about this.

It’s not news to him that he’s attractive. Since he was sixteen people have looked at him that way. It’s weird to think that the Elf King found him appealing. The man has lived for so long but he’s…still embarrassed, almost, at the mention of sex. Stan probably shouldn’t have found it as amusing as he did, but it was _funny._ His ears were turning as red as his hair!

But—still, it never occurred to him that elves might look at him and think he’s good looking. It’s been thrown in his face before, yeah, but they were total strangers. People who in the end were either faking it or using it to their advantage. The Elf King had no reason to say the things he did. It was most likely a way to gain Stan’s trust, but it was still entertaining.

He sighs, taking a tight turn and continuing his pacing. He knows that the Elf King said what he did in order to get Stan to ask for more information. An exchange; Stan tells him about Kupa Keep and the Elf King tells him about his kingdom. Stan isn’t stupid.

He _wants_ to know, though. So, so badly, because he can’t remember what peace is like, and if the people of the Elven Kingdom are experiencing it, he wants to see it. He wants to see it so that he can bring it home, so that his men can live it. Nobody in Kupa Keep has known peace, but if Stan could bring it back with him then—then he could live with anything.

All personal sentiments aside, however…Stan has no real reason to play the game the Elf King is obviously planning. Talking instead of torture, dangling information in front of him like it’s a prize, tempting him just enough so that he learns everything he wants to know. He nods once, sharply. He won’t play the Elf King’s games. That doesn’t mean he won’t play his own.

Stan grins, mischievous and wicked, and if Token was here he would have groaned. His body is his best weapon and he’s about to put it to good use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont think the word peace is even a word anymore it doesnt look right. also if you wanted to know just How Ace i am just know that i had to look up attractive physical qualities in men. take that in.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been jumping around the seasons of south park and finished playing SoT and FBW recently and this just.....grew because I love the fantasy of SoT and how kyle and stan were together and how stan was a human in the drow elves. and like I know he probably has a backstory but this is MY backstory for his ranger character. this is my first time writing south park tho so I would appreciate some feedback ( ◜‿◝ )♡


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